Birthright (14 page)

“How long will he be hospitalized?”

The comment made her feel marginally better. She lifted her head, and her eyes met his in the mirror. “You've got sibs, right? One of each. Do you fight over your parents like dogs over a bone?”

“We just fight,” he said. “It's the nature of the relationship. Rivalry, competition, petty grievances. It's a tribal thing—just as the unity is against outsiders. I can kick my brother's ass, but anybody else tries to, I kick theirs and twice as hard. And if anything happened to my kid sister, I guess I'd go crazy.”

“I was his kid sister for three months. What kind of bond is that?”

“Visceral, Cal. Instinctive. It's blood and bone. Added to that, he's the boy child, the older, and it was, most likely, verbalized that it was his job to look out for you.”

He motioned to her for the water. “He would have known that, again instinctively, perhaps resented it, perhaps embraced it, but the verbalization from other relatives
would have confirmed his instincts. You were the defenseless, the weak, and he was to protect.” He paused, took a swig, handed the bottle back to her. “He failed. Now he's a man, and as the only son, I'd imagine he's transferred those duties to his mother. You're both outsider and lost child. He's in a hell of a primal fix.”

“Sounds like you're taking up for him.”

“Merely outlining the basic theories. Now if you were to come over here, crawl all over me and ask me to go beat him up for you, I might consider it.”

The knock on the door had her jerking her thumb toward it. “Out.”

But when she went to answer, Jake simply linked his fingers behind his head and settled in.

L
ana shook out an umbrella as she nipped inside the motel room. It looked to Callie as if she hadn't gotten a single drop on her. There was something strange about a woman who didn't get wet in a rainstorm.

“Miserable out there,” Lana began. “You can barely . . . Oh.” She angled her head when she spotted Jake stretched out on the bed. “Sorry. I didn't realize you had company.”

“He's not company, he's an annoyance working his way up to millstone. Jacob Graystone, Lana Campbell.”

“Yes, we met the other day when I dropped by the dig. Nice to see you again, Dr. Graystone.”

“Jake,” he corrected. “How's it going?”

“Fine, thanks.” Millstone or Graystone, he looked very much at home. “Listen, Callie, if this is a bad time we can set up an appointment for tomorrow.”

“This is as good a time as any. Except it's a little crowded in here,” she added with a telling look at Jake.

“Plenty of room.” He patted the bed beside him.

“Actually, what I have to discuss with Callie comes under the area of privilege.”

“It's okay,” he told her. “We're married.”

“Divorced.” Callie slapped at his foot. “If you found something out, you can talk in front of the moron. He knows the setup.”

“Which means, at this point, he knows more than I do. Well.” Lana glanced around, decided to risk the narrow chair beside the door. “I got some information on Marcus Carlyle. He did indeed practice law in Boston during the time period you gave me. Prior to that he practiced first in Chicago, fourteen years, then in Houston for thirteen. Subsequently to Boston, where he remained about ten years, he relocated to Seattle, where he practiced another seven years.”

“Guy gets around,” Jake commented.

“Yes. He closed his practice in 1986. That's where I've lost him for now. I can keep looking, or I can hire an investigator who's free, as I'm not, to travel to Seattle, to Boston, to Chicago, to Houston and gather more information at the source. It'll cost you considerably more. Before you decide,” she continued before Callie could speak, “you need to know what else I found out.”

“You work this fast, you're not going to earn that five-hundred-dollar retainer.”

“Oh, I think I will.” Lana opened her briefcase, took out Callie's adoption papers. “I made a copy of this for my files. I also did a standard check. These papers were never filed.”

“What do you mean they weren't filed?”

“I mean there was no adoption. No legal proceeding through any court in Boston, or Massachusetts for that matter. There's no record, anywhere, that Elliot and Vivian Dunbrook adopted a child on this date, any date prior or any date subsequent to the one on these papers.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that Marcus Carlyle did not file the petition with the court. The case number listed on the petition, and the final decree, is bogus. It doesn't exist. The judge's signature on the decree and the court seal are most likely bogus as well. As this judge died in 1986, I can't absolutely verify that end of it. But I can follow the steps. What you
have there, Callie, are papers generated through Carlyle's law office that never went any further than that office. The adoption didn't take place.”

All she could do was stare at the papers, at her parents' names. “This doesn't make any sense.”

“I might make more sense of it if you told me why you hired me to find this lawyer.”

Jake got up, took Callie by the shoulders and moved her to the bed. “Sit down, babe.”

He crouched down, rubbing his hands over her thighs. “You want her to know?”

She managed a nod.

He had a way, Callie thought, of lining up the facts, laying them out cleanly, concisely. His mind worked that way—clean and concise—so he could cut through extraneous details to the core of the matter. It was almost like listening to a synopsis of an event that had nothing to do with her.

Which, she supposed, was precisely his intention.

As he spoke, Callie rose, walked into the bathroom and got aspirin out of her travel kit. She downed three, then simply stood at the sink studying her own face in the mirror.

Were you ever what you thought you were? she wondered. Ever really who you thought you were? Whatever, whoever that was, legal papers couldn't change it.

Nothing and nobody could screw you over but yourself. As long as she held on to that, she'd be all right. She'd get through.

When she came back in, Lana was busily scribbling notes on one of her legal pads.

Lana glanced up. “Callie, I have to ask you one vital question, and I need you to set your emotions aside before you answer. Is it possible Elliot and Vivian Dunbrook were involved, in any way, with the kidnapping?”

“My mother feels guilty if she has a book overdue at the library.” God, she was tired, Callie thought. If Jake patted the bed now, she'd probably fall on it face first. “My father's love for her made him agree to keep my adoption between them. His integrity had him keeping the
documentation of it safe. They had nothing to do with it. Couldn't have. And setting that aside, I saw their faces when I told them about Suzanne Cullen. They're as much victims as she is.”

As you are, Lana thought, but nodded. The Cullen baby, she thought again. Douglas Cullen's sister. Roger's granddaughter. How many lives were going to be turned around yet again?

“You don't know them,” Callie continued. “So you're not convinced. You can check the information Jake just gave you. You can check them out if you feel obliged. But I don't want you spending time looking at them when you could spend it finding this son of a bitch.”

She tossed the papers on the bed. “He not only stole babies, he sold them. No way, no way in hell I was the only one. He has a system, and he preyed on desperate, childless couples for profit.”

“I agree with you, but we'll have to substantiate that.”

“Hire the investigator.”

“It's going to add considerable expense.”

“Just get it started. I'll tell you when I have to pull the plug.”

“All right. I'll take care of it tonight. I know someone who did quite a bit of work for the firm my husband was with in Baltimore. If he's unavailable, he'll give me a recommendation. Callie, do the Cullens know?”

“I went to see Suzanne today. We're arranging for tests to confirm.”

Lana made another note on her pad, then laid her pen across it. “I should tell you. I have a personal relationship with Roger Grogan. Ah, Suzanne Cullen's father,” she explained when Callie's face went blank. “We're friends, good friends. And, as it happens, I had a date with Douglas Cullen last night.”

“I thought you were married.”

“I was. My husband was killed almost four years ago. I'm interested in Doug on a personal level. If that's a problem for you, we'll need to sort it out before we go any further.”

“Jesus.” Callie rubbed her hands over her face. “Small towns. I don't know what difference it makes, as long as you remember who you're representing.”

“I know who I'm representing. I can't begin to understand what this is like for you, or what it's like for any of the parties involved. But I'm your lawyer.”

“Your boyfriend thinks I'm after his mother's money.”

“One date doesn't make him my boyfriend,” Lana said mildly. “And I imagine there's going to be a certain amount of friction until this is cleared up. He doesn't strike me as a simple, mild-mannered sort of man.”

“He struck me as a putz.”

Lana smiled as she rose. “Yes, he does give that first impression. I'm going to do some more digging and get the investigator started. I'll need you to stop by the office sometime tomorrow. Hopefully, I can give you an update, and you can give me a bigger check.”

She took Callie's hand, gave it a bolstering squeeze. “I won't tell you not to worry; I certainly would. But I will tell you everything that can be done will be. I'm as good at my job as you are at yours.”

“Then we should wrap this up pretty quick. I'm really good at my job.”

“Come by tomorrow,” she said as she picked up her umbrella. “Good-bye, Jake.”

“Lana.” Because she seemed the type for it, he moved to the door to open it for her.

When he closed it, he hesitated. He wasn't quite sure what to do about, or for, Callie. She'd put on a good front with Lana, but he could see under it to where she was shell-shocked and unsure. And unhappy.

He'd seen that combination before. Only he'd been the one making her unhappy.

“Let's get a pizza,” he decided.

She stood where she was, looking kind of dazed. “What?”

“Let's get a pizza, see if we can get some work done.”

“I don't . . . You were just in the restaurant.”

“I just had coffee. Okay, pie, too, but that doesn't count,
as it was mostly a ploy to get gossip out of Frieda. Good pie though. Peach.”

“Just go away.”

“If I go away, you'll wallow. No point in that. You can't do anything about any of this until you have more data. Gotta be a pizza parlor in town.”

“Modesto's, corner of Main and Mountain Laurel.”

He picked up the phone. “Knew you'd already have the priorities in line. I'm getting mushrooms.”

“No, you're not.”

“Half. I'm entitled to mushrooms on half.”

“You get fungi anywhere near my half, you have to pay for the whole shot.”

“I paid last time.”

“Then hold the damn mushrooms. The number's right there on the pad by the phone.”

“So it is. Pizza, liquor store, post office.” He started to dial. “You never change.”

He ordered the pizza, remembering her fondness for pepperoni and black olives, added mushrooms to his half. “Thirty minutes,” he said when he hung up. “You know, this place isn't going to cut it for the long haul. We're going to have to see about renting a house.”

“It's almost August. We don't have that much time left in this season.”

“Time enough. We should be able to score something we can rent by the month.”

“I don't know what I'm going to tell my parents.” She blurted it out, then just lifted her hands, let them fall. “What can I tell them?”

“Nothing.” He walked to her now. “No point in telling them anything else until you have more facts. You know how to work an excavation, Callie. Layer by layer, point by point. You start jumping into theories too quick, you miss details.”

“I can't think straight.”

“You will.” He waited a moment, then tapped his knuckles on her cheek. “Why don't you try holding on to me for a minute. You never tried that one before.”

“I don't—” But he slid his arms around her, pulled her
in. After a moment's resistance she laid her head on his shoulder, breathed deep.

The spot just under his heart fluttered. Settled. “That's the way.”

“I don't know why I'm not mad. I can't seem to find my mad.”

“Oh, you will.”

“Soon. I really hope I find it soon.” She closed her eyes. He was right, she supposed, she hadn't tried this one before. It wasn't so bad. “Is this another friendship deal?”

“Yeah. Well, that and the possibility you'll get hot and want to have sex. Let's see.”

He nipped at her ear, then her jaw.

Oh, she knew the moves. He had damn good ones. She could counter, or she could meet them. She met them, turning her head just enough to find those clever lips with hers. To feel that shock of lust and promise.

She pressed her body to his, and felt their hearts slam together. On a moan of approval, she locked her arms around him until he fisted a hand in her shirt the way he often had before. The fierce possessiveness of that grip had always excited and baffled her.

The instant hunger, his, hers, was a kind of relief. That plunge into the heat they made together was a kind of baptism.

She was still whole, still real.

She was still Callie Ann Dunbrook.

And, she thought, she could still want things that weren't good for her.

Then his hands came to her face, cupped her cheeks in a gentle touch that threw her off balance. And his lips rubbed hers in a whisper that spoke more of affection than passion.

“It's still there, Callie.”

“That was never our problem.”

“It sure as hell wasn't.” Still holding her face, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You want beer to go with that pizza? I've got some next door.”

She stepped back, eyed him suspiciously. “You're turning down sex for pizza and beer?”

“Don't put it that way. It hurts. You want the beer or not?”

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” She shrugged, then feeling oddly rejected, turned away to her laptop. “I'm going to finish logging in today's finds.”